


White Harbour: A Winter of Wolves and Snow

by Wright661



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wright661/pseuds/Wright661
Summary: The Starks are separated, broken by loss and poverty and sorrow. This is the story of how they were brought back together, and the people who helped them along the way.





	1. Seamstress

Margaery stalked the aisles like a startled doe, all wariness, as if the clothes sitting motionless on their racks were about to leap off and give chase. She heard her brother sigh behind her. Again. ‘Surely there’s an easier way. Just ask for her number.’

‘Loras, with all due respect, what do you know about courting women?’

‘…Nothing.’

‘Precisely. Now shut up and help me decide.’

Loras leaned wearily against the closest wall. They had been here for ten minutes, and, to no one’s surprise, he was already bored. Loras Tyrell was many things, charming, dashing, handsome, oblivious, but one thing he was not, was a model of patience.

‘Right. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you want something that is not obviously cheap, but cheap enough that you are shopping _here_ (cue forced shudder), something that you look good in, obviously, but again, not too good, because that would ruin your cover, and, most essentially, something with holes in it, even though you know that’s at least two years out of fashion.’

‘Loras.’

‘Yes, sister dear?’

‘You are an actor, correct?’

‘Congratulations, Mar, you finally worked it out! After all, I’ve been doing so much to hide my profession from you…’

‘Loras.’

‘Yes, I am an actor, so what.’

‘Could you potentially don a role that isn’t an absolute dickhead?’

‘What, and leave you without the sparkling delight of my wit? Never.’

‘More’s the pity.’

‘You realise you could just buy what you liked and then put holes in them?’

‘She’s a seamstress, Loras, and she knows what she’s doing, d’you really want her to think that I go out and get stabbed on a regular basis?’

‘Fine. What about this?’

‘Hmmm? Perfect. Put it in the bag.’

 

This had all started when Margaery had fallen down two flights of stairs. When she had reached the bottom, she was none the worse for wear, apart from grazed elbows and knees, and the fact that her favourite jumper was now sporting two holes at the elbows and a massive gash up the left, from where it had caught on the staircase on her way down. Of course, it was just her luck that this happened two weeks before winter was due to set in. There was nothing for it. It had to be mended.

 

The only problem was that no one she knew had any idea how to. She was a Tyrell, and that meant she was expected to associate only with those of a ‘certain class’. No one she was friends with knew how to sew, Gods forbid. They had people to do that for them. Except for the fact that no one seemed to have anyone to do it for them either. It took three weeks of determined investigation, but by the time that the snow started to fall, she was standing outside a block of apartments, the address on a piece of paper in her hand, given to her by the cousin of a friend of her brother’s, who swore up and down that the seamstress was a miracle worker. On the eighth floor, she had rung the bell of Room 193, and after a few moments, the lock clicked, and the door opened on a slender redhead, with a pale face and shrewd blue eyes.

‘What?’

‘Pardon?’

‘What do you want? I’m busy.’

‘Sorry, sorry, a friend sent me, and said you were a miracle when it comes to sewing.’

‘Fine. Let me see it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The thing you want mended. Let me see it.’

‘Oh, sorry, of course. Here.’

‘Hmmm. Two hundred dollars. It’ll be done in three days.’

‘Really? Thank you so much!’

‘Thank me when it’s done. See you then.’

 

So, Margaery had waited her three days, then returned hesitantly, ringing the bell, and encountering the same reserved girl. Her thanks had fallen on deaf ears, however, and she had left feeling that there was something missing, as if she had not properly repaid the seamstress, and that feeling was only increased when she tried her jumper on in front of the mirror. When she twisted to examine the proportions of the gash, it glittered prettily as it caught the light, a golden thread sown into the pattern. Her elbows were the same, slashes of gold nestled among the blue, that seemed to make it suit her all the better. And the scent… She buried her nose in the soft fabric and was met by the soft nasal twang of lemon, a hint of snow, mixed deep with the gentle notes of wood-smoke. It was heavenly, and all of sudden, she felt like crying at the care the girl had obviously put into her work. Three days, two hundred dollars, for this? She couldn’t let this stand. (At least, she told herself that that was her only incentive to see the girl again. Ulterior motive? Margaery Tyrell? Surely not.)

 

…

 

Sansa had taken an instant dislike to Margaery Tyrell, at least when she had first met her. It was nothing to do with the girl herself, she seemed kind and honest and sincere, but rather her scent. The girl stank of money, lots of the stuff, and it didn’t help that in the back of her mind, there was a niggling sense of recognition, as if she had seen the face plastered on a billboard somewhere in the city. So, when the girl had pulled out the jumper, Sansa had taken a quick look, doubled her normal price, and then rounded up to the nearest hundred. To her surprise, and the faintest tinge of regret, she had not haggled or bargained or walked away in disgust. Instead, the girl had jumped for joy, and even thanked her. The three days was more like a couple of hours, and seeing the rich Prussian blue of the fabric, she had sighed, and got out her gold thread, $5 a spool from the producer, true, but she liked how it glittered in the faint sunlight of winter and was loath to give the last of it up, at least a week before she could order more. But, she thought, melancholic and resigned, she was extravagantly screwing the girl over, she could afford to lose some shiny thread.

 

Of course, that didn’t help her mood a week later, when the girl came back with half a dozen items of clothing, all bearing holes and scrapes. She had scanned the pile, named a price only half again what she would normally charge, and then frozen at the look on the stricken girl’s face. For a moment, she had thought her deception had been discovered, until almost twice what she had intended to charge was shoved into her hands, her protestations being silenced by the insistent brunette. She repaired the tattered jeans with a mixture of denim, cobalt and turquoise, the glistening patches eliciting a gasp of joy from her client, before she was pulled into a tight hug. It took until the girl’s third visit for Sansa to search her up. When she found that her best customer was Margaery Tyrell, (a Tyrell!), she resolved not to question her best customer's spending choices any more. If she had wanted to, Margaery could have built a portable bonfire of hundred-dollar bills in lieu of a jumper, and not even dented her own bank account, let alone her family’s. She broke this resolution another three times, each time trying to subtly reduce her charges, and each time her subtlety was rewarded by the Tyrell girl filling her hands with now exorbitant sums of money. Finally, by Margaery’s seventh visit, Sansa’s patience had worn thin. The girl was obviously terminally clumsy, and she had to do _something_ about it.

 

…

 

This time, this time for sure. She’d offer Sansa a coffee, maybe ask if she wanted a bite to eat. Give some inclination that she wished that their relationship would pass beyond a business arrangement. Loras had suggested just leaving her number in the pocket of one of the items of clothing she now regularly passed on to the redhead. Margaery had rejected this out of hand. She probably wouldn’t even find it, she’d reasoned, it’s not like Sansa would be rummaging through her pockets, (oblivious to the fact that Sansa had done just that, several times, if only to assuage her limitless curiosity about the brunette). Instead, here she was, again, meandering down the hallway of the eighth floor, with a thin, tattered shirt in her hands. It was set to be a short winter, four or five months at most, and for once she had found an item of clothing that was both in desperately in need of repair and already hers. Her knock at the door was hardly completed by the time it swung open, to the sight of Sansa, with a single flaming eyebrow cocked up in an expression of unsurprised amusement. ‘Honestly, I’d thought you’d run out of terminally ill clothing. Come in, I’ve had an idea.’ She opened the door wider, and Margaery followed, cautious, like she was dealing with a stressed animal. In all of her half-dozen visits, this was the furthest the door had been opened, and now she was being invited inside? ‘Inside’ turned out to be an understated apartment, with half-mended clothes strewn over a couch that seemed like it needed as much attention as they did. Margaery released a breath that she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and was alarmed to see the faintest puff of steam from her warm breath expelled into the cold air. Sansa laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I prefer the cold. Seriously, don’t pull that face, any longer and I’ll be rushing you to the nearest hospital. Come on, sit down, and let me explain my idea. Right, so you’re obviously not great at the whole not ruining stuff thing, right?’

‘What?’

‘You’re my best customer and I’ve known you for about two months. I’m not sure how you still have a functioning wardrobe.’

‘Right.’

‘So, I thought, why not help you out? I could teach you to mend your own clothes, sowing and all that jazz. What d’you say?’

‘I…isn’t that you taking away from your own business? I wouldn’t want to…’

‘I’m not that bad off. Seriously, I do actually prefer the cold. Plus, if you really feel the need to, you could always pay me to teach you.’

‘Okay, that seems fair enough. When do you want to start?’

‘Why not now?’

 

…

 

‘Okay, now thread it through, gently…’

‘Shit!’

‘Don’t worry, it’s fine, you’ll get the hang of it soon.’

 

‘Ouch! Damn it.’

‘Here, put a plaster on it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘On the bright side, I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to stab yourself.’

‘Wow. Thanks.’

‘Hey, that was a compliment!’

 

‘Seriously, why do they make those bloody things so pointy?’

‘It’s only bloody ‘cause you keep stabbing yourself with it.’

‘Not. Helping.’

 

‘See! I told you I could do it!’

‘I never said you couldn’t.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Okay, maybe I doubted you. But here you are proving me wrong.’

‘Exactly!’

 

‘Sansa, do you want to grab a coffee?’

‘What? Sure, let me finish this, then I’ll go down and grab some.’

‘No, I mean after we’re done, d’you maybe want to go get some coffee together?’

‘Oh. Yeah, why not.’

 

…

 

Margaery was broken from her silent reverie by a slight cough from Sansa.

‘Mar, I’m going to be entirely honest with you.’

Oh god, here it was. She was bored, she didn’t want to be her friend, let alone anything…else, she half-braced herself for the blow to fall and…

‘I don’t actually like coffee.’

Wait, what?

‘We’ve been here four times now, and you’re only just telling me you don’t like coffee? Why not just say so?’

‘I swear to the gods, Mar, you are the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.’

She went to speak, but was interrupted by lips on hers, and suddenly she tasted the bitter tang of coffee on her tongue and the sweet-sour taste of lemon that curled through her mind, and the half-remembered heat of snow that engulfed her heart, cold as ice, burning like fire, and the faintest scent of wood smoke that filled her as they pulled away for air, and each hesitantly examined the other.

 

…

 

Sansa drew back for air and felt her stomach twist in laughter and sudden anxiety, at the shock emanating from the girl across from her.

‘Oh.’

‘Is that all I get? An oh?’

‘Well, I guess, if you’re being honest, I might as well be too.’

And here it was, the polite rejection, the burning behind the eyes, and the sorrow and pity and foolish hope all thrown to the wind, all lost, all…

‘I’ve been buying ruined clothes from thrift shops, so I’d be able to see you again.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Next time just ask me out the first time.’

‘You want there to be a next time?’

‘Mar. I kissed you less than a minute ago.’

‘Oh. Right.’

And then they were both laughing and hugging and the twist in Sansa’s stomach disappeared, replaced by the sudden lightness in her heart at the sight of the girl before her.


	2. Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asha Greyjoy does not want to be at a wedding, and Robb Stark isn't sure why he is there in the first place. Also, language warning if you feel that you need it.

Asha hated weddings, white or otherwise. Everyone seemed to think that a white wedding was the height of sophistication and comfort, but all she could see was the snow that fell achingly slowly, drifting among tuxedos and champagne glasses, alighting on roofs, piling on pine branches, weighing them down before dropping their frozen baggage over whoever walked beneath them, melting under the crunch of patent leather shoes, mixing with the soft mud to turn the ground into a dirt-brown cesspool, no one noticing the stink of the wet soil on their shoes over the overwhelming scent of lilies, pumped like a shower of rain to fall on the outdoor tables, coating tablecloths and plates and glasses, as well as the guests themselves, in a fine mist that stank of pollen and insecurity, so much that they must have felt the unease in the air, but everybody was too drunk or too polite, or else far too unimportant to let a little thing like doubt or vulnerability concern them, as they danced away their own problems in the mud and tears and snow. After all, it wasn’t their wedding.

 

Yes, Asha hated weddings. But it was also possible that she was already in a bad mood.

 

…

 

It wasn’t that Robb hated weddings. He just hadn’t been to enough to have a solid opinion on them, yet. And, yet here he was, seated ignobly on the head table, red hair clashing horribly with a cheap rented tux, as he suddenly downed another glass of champagne. It was going to be a long night, but as a friend of the groom (though he hadn’t spoken to Theon since they were both sixteen) and of the bride (though Sansa was always closer friends with Jeyne, and he couldn’t remember ever talking to the girl), he was expected to stay all night, making unpleasant small talk with people he, at best, half-knew. At worst, he knew them far too well, and that was why, instead of moving from his seat to dance half-heartedly, he motioned to the waitstaff to get him another drink.

 

Yes, it was going to be a long night. Or, at least, it was, until Asha Greyjoy took her seat beside him.

 

…

 

Was that Robb fucking Stark? Gods, Theon really had forced everybody he knew to come to his wedding. At first, Asha had hoped her brother had done the smart thing, and relegated her to a table near the back, somewhere among the hoard of Harlaws and Goodbrothers and Drumms, who even now looked indescribably odd shoved into their suits and ties, out of place without their leathers and the splashes of oil or petrol that stained every outfit they owned. But no, of course, she was up the front, right across from her father, who grimaced every time he made eye contact with her. Of course, she didn’t take it personally. Balon Greyjoy would grimace at a sunset or a pile of cash. His daughter was not excluded from the all-encompassing list of things that angered him. Asha was just happy that neither Rodrik or Maron could make it. One Greyjoy sibling getting shitfaced would be bad enough, the three of them together would end with a knife in someone’s ribs. Speaking of getting shitfaced though…that gave her an idea. She just needed to play her cards right.

 

…

 

‘Well, if it isn’t Robb Stark.’

‘Asha.’

‘How the hell did you get invited? I didn’t think you two had seen each other for the last decade?’

‘We haven’t. I’ve no clue, to be honest.’

Asha grinned as she heard the slightest of slurs in Robb’s words. That would make this so much easier.

‘Why, have you been drinking, Stark? Naughty, naughty. I thought you’d at least want to make it to the speeches.’

He snorted.

‘This is only my third glass. It’s champagne, I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

‘You do realise there’s whiskey mixed into that?’

‘Really? Shit.’

‘We’re Ironborn. What did you expect?’

‘Honestly? I expected more shotguns.’

‘That’s unfair.’

‘What, and you’re all just honest businesspeople with an affinity for whiskey and motorcycles?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Fair enough.’

He downed his glass, then winced.

‘Gods, how did I not notice the whiskey?’

‘You know what? Fuck it.’

‘What are you planning, Greyjoy?’

‘500 crowns says I can drink more than you tonight.’

Robb looked down at the small pile of cash that Asha had slammed down on the table, then grinned.

‘Deal. You realise that means that I’m three ahead of you already.’

‘Not for long. Waiter! Another four glasses, thanks.’

‘Make it five.’

Oh, it was going to be a long night alright.

 

Asha wasn’t certain, but Balon’s grimaces seemed to come even more readily when he’d had something to drink. On his right, however, Theon seemed to glow with happiness, red in the face with cheers and toasts, and when his wife laid her head on his shoulder, it looked like he was about to cry with joy. Asha, on the other hand, was beginning to regret forgetting how many toasts happened at Ironborn weddings. Stark had begun tossing back a glassful every time a toast was called, and her head was starting to get light. The fucking redhead, on the other hand, seemed to take every drink with his blank stoicism, and if Asha hadn’t known better, she would have thought that he had experience with Ironborn nuptials. Either that, or he was stubborn. Balon gave an attentive cough, and she turned to meet her father’s glare with her own. He sighed.

‘Asha, I believe you’ve had enough to drink.’

Beside her, Robb Stark finally let his façade crack. Unfortunately for her, it was to let out a smirk.

‘Yeah, come on, Asha. At your brother’s wedding, no less.’

‘Fuck you, Stark.’

‘Asha!’

‘What? Fine. Sorry, Theon.’

‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to!’

‘Why not? It’s your wedding.’

Robb was still grinning, though now it seemed less sardonic, more honest, more genuine.

‘I’d take the apology, Theon. It’s probably all you’re going to get.’

‘Now that’s just fucking rude, Stark. I’m a very sweet person, especially to my brother.’

As Asha looked around the table, it seemed that her words had succeeded in defusing whatever situation had been about to occur, albeit, not in the way she had hoped. Theon was almost crying with laughter at her misplaced sincerity, Robb and Jeyne seemingly couldn’t make eye contact without setting each other going again, and even her father had cracked a smile behind his glass.

‘Hey. Hey! Fuck you all. I don’t need to take this shit.’

‘Come on, Theon. Let’s leave your sister to sulk. I want to dance.’

Before her husband could utter any agreement or argument, Jeyne was pulling him by the arm to where the now-diminished crowd swayed out of time with the music. The rest of the table made their excuses, and finally, Balon left, striding over to where Gorold Goodbrother and Dunstan Drumm, each deep in his cups, seemed ready to start a brawl. Robb was still smiling, this time in the direction of the two men, but when Asha turned her eyes towards him, he did the same.

 

 

‘Feeling alright?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘That was an honest question.’

‘Yeah, and it got an honest response.’

‘We can end the bet if you’d like.’

‘Craven, Stark?’

‘I’ll take that as a no.’

‘Good idea.’

‘Well, if you won’t take my charity, how about my hospitality. Feel up to a dance?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘…’

‘…’

‘Ah, fuck it. Why not?’

‘What?’

‘The dance. Why not.’

 

The ground beneath their feet had long been churned into mud, and her drunken coordination barely let her perform more than a few basic steps. But she and Robb and Theon and Jeyne were all dancing together to the music, and the heady scents of liquor and lilies mixed together seemed like nectar to her nostrils. Around her, people were laughing and crying and drinking and celebrating, and she tossed her head back, and let out her own peals of laughter, and next to her stood Robb, bemused at her sudden hilarity, but already laughing himself. He was beautiful when he laughed, all fire and ice and whiskey on his breath, a Molotov cocktail of a man, all wrapped up tight in that glassy exterior, and here he was, letting himself go, letting himself out, embracing her like an inferno. And so, she kissed him, and felt his face go slack with surprise beneath her lips, and considered pulling herself away for a moment, until he responded with such enthusiasm, such steel and fire that she almost felt like pulling away for a second, just to check that he was still him, as Theon and Jeyne cheered, and around them, the rest of the Ironborn cheered as well, toasting to the bride, to the groom, to Clan Greyjoy, to friends lost and friends gained, and Asha could ignore it all, for minutes and hours and days, all for those seconds that she clung to an inferno.

 

…

 

Robb didn’t know much of Ironborn traditions, but when the crowd was hushed, and everybody else went quiet, he went silent and still himself, still holding Asha to himself, like a live wire, all energy and joy and emotion. She clung to him, and him to her, and they were stood there when Dunstan Drumm began to sing, low and slow and mournful.

 

Of all the money, that e’er I had,

I spent it in good company.

And all that harm, I’ve ever done,

Alas, it was to none but me.’

 

By the time he had finished the verse, Erik Ironmaker had wheeled himself to the front, and joined him with a deep bass, that rumbled like thunder.

 

‘And all I’ve done, for want of wit,

To memory now, I can’t recall.’

 

Now, he had been joined by Gorold Goodbrother, and Harras Harlaw, and Codd and Farwynd and Blacktyde, and even Balon had joined the chorus.

 

‘So, fill to me, the parting glass,

Good night and joy be to you all.

So, fill to me, the parting glass,

And drink a health what e’er befalls.’

 

And finally, the heads of the Clans were joined by their people, and beside him, Asha and Theon roared the words as loudly as any others.

 

‘Then gently rise, and softly call,

Good night and joy be to you all.

 

‘Of all the comrades, that e’er I had,

They’re sorry for my going away.

And all the sweethearts that e’er I had,

They’d wish me one more day, to stay.

 

‘But since it fell unto my lot,

That I should rise, and you should not,

I’ll gently rise and softly call,

Good night and joy be to you all.

 

‘A man may drink and not be drunk,

A man may fight and not be slain,

A man may court a pretty girl,

And perhaps be welcomed back again.

 

‘But since it has so ought to be,

By a time to rise and a time to fall,

I’ll gently rise and softly call,

Good night and joy be to you all.

 

Good night and joy be to you all.’

 

…

 

When Asha woke, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed, her first thought was that this definitely wasn’t her bed. It wasn’t even her hotel bed. When she opened her eyes, the harsh sun rained in, and she sensibly closed them again. From her left came a wry chuckle, and without opening her eyes again, she turned towards the source of the noise.

‘Stark, why the hell am I in your bed?’

‘Don’t worry, nothing happened.’

‘What do you mean, nothing happened?’

‘I…well…as in, between us. Nothing happened between us.’

‘And yet, I definitely remember kissing you.’

‘Well, yeah, but that’s as far as it went.’

‘Then why the hell am I in your bed?’

‘You absolutely refused to be parted from me. I think. I was about as drunk as you were.’

‘So, when you say that nothing happened…’

‘Asha, you were absolutely sloshed. I slept on the floor.’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah.’

‘So, what happens now?’

‘D’you want a coffee?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song I used in called 'The Parting Glass', a Scottish and Irish song usually sung at the end of the night, similar to 'Auld Lang Syne'. Both Ed Sheeran and The High Kings do excellent versions of it, so have a listen to them.


	3. Classroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Stark returns to Winterfell, and finds something that he hadn't been expecting

‘Okay. First things first. Don’t call me Mr Stark. That was my uncle. I’m not Sir, either, or Lord Stark, as much as some of your older brothers’ll try to tell you. I’m your teacher, but that doesn’t mean you get to make me feel old. Call me Jon. If you don’t think you can manage that, chuck something at my head, I’m sure it’ll get my attention. Second thing. I’m relatively new at this. That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m teaching. It does mean that I don’t know the best ways to teach it to you. So, if you’re not learning enough, or my methods aren’t working for you, feel free to tell me. Any questions?’

‘Do you really have a pet wolf?’

‘I meant questions about me being your teacher, Beth, not if Jory was telling the truth in every tall tale that he ever told you.’

‘But, do you, sir?’

‘Again, call me Jon. Ghost isn’t a wolf, he’s just a big dog. And he’s well trained, he’s not likely to rip out someone’s throat anytime soon.’

‘Why are you back here?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean. I needed a job, and I was lucky enough to get one here. Being already from Winterfell was an added bonus.’

‘It’s only, I heard you got loads of offers, Mr Stark.’

‘I wish. Don’t ever become teachers, kids, not if you want any job security.’

‘So why did you?’

‘A…friend thought I’d be good at it. She was right, as it turns out. Anyway, I think that’s enough questions for the moment. D’you all have your copies of _The Conquest of Dorne_ and _The Young Dragon_? Good. For this semester, we’ll be studying the early Targaryen period and its impacts on…’

 

Winterfell had always felt like home until it wasn’t. A small town, an old city, cut off from the south by the woods and barrows of the North, no rivers, no coast, nothing for dozens of miles except the occasional farm or forestry estate, and the implacable highway, that stretched its way through the land. He hadn’t been back in about seven years, at least not since he’d finished school, and gone south to university, to the sprawling city of White Harbour. He’d had no reasons to come back. Everybody moved with him, Uncle Ned packing up his law firm, Aunt Cat closing down her sewing business. Robb had been as excited for university as he had, while Sansa had exceeded them both, after apparently living fifteen years without change or surprise, or half-decent internet. Arya had looked forward to the city’s promises of adventure, while Bran had simply accepted it, a stoic at heart, even at eleven. Rickon, on the other hand, had been furiously, reasonably upset, a nine-year-old being torn away from the only home he’d ever known. He’d always been the fiercest, the wildest, with the possible exception of Arya, and that had manifested then into a dark despair. He’d hidden himself under his bed, the day they’d had to move, camouflaged into the darkness, and it was only by closing his eyes and listening for the faint sobs and sniffles that Jon had found him, crawling in under the bed, beside his cousin, quietly asking if he wanted to go out to the car with him. They’d talked quietly together for the three-hour drive, and when they got to their new home, surrounded by noise and grey and stink, Rickon had been the first inside. Jon hadn’t been sure whether he was running to the comforting warmth of the house or from the darkness of the city.

 

‘So, you’re back.’

‘I’m sorry, have we met?’

Across the table from him sat a woman, and it might have been the years or the certainty he’d once had that he’d never return to Winterfell, but he simply couldn’t place her. Her eyes were a pale blue, that reminded him, somehow, of home. A Tully? Her hair, on the other hand, was a dark honey-blonde, and she smiled easily at his confusion.

‘I don’t think so. I’m Val Whitacre. I teach geography.’

‘Pleased to meet you. Jon Stark. I’m the new history teacher.’

‘No need to introduce yourself. You Starks are pretty famous around here.’

So, he didn’t know her, at least not directly. Still, there was something about her blue-grey eyes that he kept examining. He knew them, from something, from somewhere…and then Val cocked her head to the side quizzically, and he swallowed unevenly, as his brain finally made the connections.

‘Famous? Us? The Starks haven’t done anything exciting for about a hundred years.’

‘Winterfell’s a small town. Seems like the Starks have always been here. At least, that’s how the locals tell it.’

‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell?’

‘I’ve heard that a few times as well.’

‘Well, there are plenty of us here. In the cemetery.’

‘They speak quite well of your uncle ‘round here.’

‘How long have you taught here?’

‘Two years.’

‘Then you’ll know that people here take grudges seriously.’

‘They don’t seem to hold them for long.’

‘True, but that doesn’t stop tempers getting fiery over little things.’

‘Fiery?’

‘Inside joke, sorry. We hold grudges until we’re satisfied, until they’ve been made right. Normally, it doesn’t take long, but it’s been long enough in the past for buildings to be burned over a spilled drink.’

‘Really?’

‘Like I said, they take grudges seriously. That’s what my uncle looked after. He’s…he was a lawyer, so whenever someone was pissed off at someone else, they’d go to Uncle Ned. They trusted him to be fair about it.’

‘So why leave?’

‘I don’t know. Robb and I were both going off to uni, so that might have been it. He wanted us to have the best opportunities we could, I think. So, when we went off to White Harbour, everybody came with us.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get to meet him.’

‘Have they heard about that up here too?’

‘No. You kept using the past tense.’

‘Are you sure you don’t teach English?’

‘Almost certain.’

‘Fair enough. I’ve got to go, sorry. Nice to meet you, Val.’

‘Likewise, Jon.’

 

Jon had hated the funerals. At the first, everybody had mistaken him for one of his cousins. Then the funeral had ended, and it had just kept happening. I’m sorry about your dad. Your father was a good man. You look just like your father. In the end, he’d just accepted it, stopped reminding everybody that Brandon had had a son too, that his cousins were the ones that needed condolences. He’d mentioned it to Robb one night when they were out drinking. His cousin had laughed.

‘Everybody keeps telling me how much I look like Mum.’

‘That’s ‘cause you do.’

 ‘I still don’t see it. Point is, to Dad, you were a son. You might be Brandon’s kid, but Mum and Dad raised you. You should’ve seen Dad’s face when you got your first job with that Dornish school. It was exactly the same look as when I joined my first shitty firm. Nothing but pride. He may have been all content and humble for himself, but for us? He wanted us to do whatever made us happy, whatever made us feel like we’d done something, and he’d sit on the sidelines applauding, whether we were joining the Small Council, or writing a shitty three-page essay. And you were just as much a part of that as the rest of us.’

‘I guess.’

‘You’re allowed to mourn too, Jon.’

 

‘And with that, I think we’re about done for today. Read the chapter in your textbooks on House Stark over the weekend and get some notes down about them. So, unless there are any questions…yes, Beth?’

‘Is it weird, sir? Having all these famous ancestors?’

‘It is a bit sometimes. Reading through the records and seeing “Jon Stark built this castle in this year”, and you have to stop yourself going “No, I didn’t”. But, most of the time, it isn’t. My ancestors were the same as yours, and all of them were the same as you and me. They lived and loved and fought and laughed and died…D’you know that we still have the some of the same burial traditions as they did? Our lives may be different from what theirs’ were, but we still all die the same. A stone over the grave, and an iron sword in the hands. Or fire. That’s popular with some of the more Northern families.’

‘Cremation?’

‘Yep. The whole clan watches. Like I said. Old traditions.’

 

There had only been three of them there, Jon, and Nolda, and Arya. He’d tried to stop his sister from coming, tried telling her that she wasn’t needed, and all it had taken was a look from her steel-grey eyes for him to be silenced. And so, the three of them watched in silence, as the smoke and flames curled, crimson and orange, glowing with the weary light of a setting sun.

 

‘I thought I’d find you here.’

The sun had not yet begun to set, instead glinting off of the light piles of snow. She was standing with the light directly behind her, a silhouette casting shadows across his vision, upset only by the glint of ash-gold hair in the afternoon brilliance.

‘And why’d you think that?’

‘I asked Beth Cassel. Apparently, her brother says that all of the Starks are moody bastards.’

He felt inclined to disagree, until he looked around himself, at the lightly falling snow, at the willow that he sat against, at the rows and rows of stone, each with the Stark name chiselled into its cold embrace.

‘Jory might be onto something. I used to come here a fair bit, back when I was a kid.’

‘Perhaps you need to focus on the living more than the dead, Jon.’

He exhaled slowly, his eyes focused on the way their breath was dancing in the cold air between them. Val sighed and gingerly sat herself down beside him, leaning into the hardwood of the willow, and closed her eyes.

‘I always liked the cold, even when I was little. It bites down to where you really live.’

‘I still think you’re secretly an English teacher.’

She opened her eyes for scarcely a moment at that, but still long enough for him to know that he should probably shut up.

‘It’s life-affirming. The wind howls and cold bites and they remind you that you’re still alive.’

‘I don’t need to be reminded that I’m still alive, Val.’

‘Would Ygritte be saying the same thing, Jon?’

It had been months since the crash, weeks since the funeral, hours since he’d seen a flash of flame or a stubborn leaf from autumn, but his breath still caught in his throat, his nerves still tensed into a flinch at the name.

‘You’re not surprised.’

‘No. You’ve got the same eyes.’

‘Aye. She was my cousin, but we still were pretty close. Close enough that I’ve heard some things about you.’

‘Good things?’

‘Good things.’

 

‘Why didn’t I see you at the funeral?’

‘The burning? Because I wasn’t invited. Aunt Nolda wanted it small.’

‘Small? There were only-’

‘Three of you. I know. Nolda and your sister and you. The family had a wake after the burning.’

‘Why? Why me?’

‘Cause Ygritte loved you, and Nolda knew it. D’you know why we burn our kin, Jon?’

‘Same reason we bury ours. Tradition.’

‘Maybe once, but we’ve got better reasons. Life is fleeting, like ashes in the wind. Death, though…Death is like fire burning. It’s certain. The burning tells you that straight. They’re dead and gone and riding merrily on the wind. You can’t let yourself hold on too tight to what’s left. It’s nought but fire. Keep it burning, aye, let it warm you when you need it, but cling to it? It’ll do nothing but burn you.’

‘That almost sounded rehearsed.’

‘My da died when I was eleven.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘I heard that sort of thing a lot when it happened. I didn’t like it at first either, but…it grows on you, you know? The thought that maybe other people have felt like this before, that if they can mend themselves, so can you.’

‘I don’t need mending, Val.’

‘Then what the hell are you doing moping in a cemetery, Jon? You don’t seem all together anymore. You don’t seem like the Jon that Ygritte would talk about.’

‘And what if I’m not that Jon anymore?’

‘Then what Jon are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There’s something for you to do, then. Start finding who you are. Who you want to be.’

‘Easy as that.’

‘I never said it would be easy. I just said it’s something that you have to do. If you ever need my help with it…I’m here for you, Jon.’

‘You don’t have to do that.’

‘Aye, I don’t. But Ygritte would’ve wanted me to. And I want to.’

 

When snows fall thickest, when the winds roar with the chorus of starving wolves, that is when Northerners bar their doors. It’s been decades since people starved, and a century at least since wolves prowled at people’s doors, on four legs or on two. And yet, it remains, buried deep in cultural memory, and so almost every door is made of inch-thick oak at least, and every house has a fireplace, however small. And if you were passing through Winterfell on the coldest night of the year, although you’d be sure to have your sanity questioned, your way would be well-lit, not by the rusted street-lamps, or the headlights of the cars that might rush past, but instead by the warm fire-light, flooding from every window onto the snow-stained streets. And if you were to go down a certain street, and glance through a certain window, framed by withered vines, and the seasonless, frozen mistletoe, you could see a dark-haired man, and an ashy blonde woman, as they laugh over steaming cups of tea, leaning together for warmth against the burning cold.

 


End file.
